Old Lover's Ghost (13 page)

So saying, he approached the door and tapped. They waited; Lewis tapped again. No sound came from within. He tried the door and found it locked.

“It is strange he would lock his door when he is in such an isolated place,” Charity said.

“Poachers. Muffal would steal the fleas off a dog. We shall try the stream” was his next idea.

There, sunning himself on a large rock, sat the hermit. He had long white hair and a severe face, with some suggestion of a marble monument in its austerity. The face was not white, however, but well tanned, with a pair of startling blue eyes set deep on either side of a prominent nose. His robe was snowy white. A staff like a shepherd’s crook sat on the ground beside the rock.

“I say, Ned,” Lewis called, walking forward.

The hermit leaped up as if he had been shot at. What struck Charity was the man’s fierce eyes. At this close range she saw that they were shockingly bloodshot.

“Hence home, you idle creatures!” he exclaimed, pointing toward the Hall and looking like Jehovah in a very bad temper.

“I just want to ask you a question,” Lewis said. The hermit examined him suspiciously. “About Meg Monteith and her child.”

The hermit said no more. He rose from his rock, picked up his staff, and marched stiffly off to his pleasant-looking little cottage. From that impressive visage Charity had expected a tall, gaunt frame, but the hermit was short and slight.

Lewis shrugged. “I told you he wouldn’t talk. A regular statue. There is no point following him.”

“He did speak. He quoted Shakespeare. That is odd, is it not?”

“Eh? What are you talking about?”

“That ‘home, you idle creatures!’ That is Shakespeare. From Julius Caesar, I think. I would have expected something from the Bible.”

“I never can tell them apart. Very likely Ned can’t either.”

“But where would he have come across Shakespeare? He was only a groom before he became a hermit. One assumes his reading since then would be of sermons and holy writing. Did you notice his eyes were very bloodshot?”

“No doubt he was up praying half the night, or studying, or flagellating himself, or doing whatever it is hermits do.”

“Or drinking,” Charity said, though it was possible a late night of reading might have caused those red eyes.

They returned, retracing their steps through the pretty forest without incident. When they reached the Hall, they found Merton in the Blue Saloon waiting for them, with his bandaged ankle propped up on a footstool. The bandage had required the removal of one topboot, which had been replaced by a patent evening slipper. He hastily picked up the book of poetry he had laid aside an hour before in favor of the
Farmer’s Monthly
.

“You missed all the excitement,” Merton said. “We have had a visit from Knagg despite the locked door and sealed windows. Why, it is enough to make a man believe in ghosts.”

“Especially if he wants to ingratiate Miss Wainwright’s papa,” Lewis added, grinning from ear to ear.

Charity appeared unmoved by both Merton’s announcement and Lewis’s gibe. “Has Papa sorted out the relationship between Knagg and Walter yet?”

“They are half brothers; they have the same mama,” Merton told her. “Knagg’s papa was forking and country, and Knagg followed in his father’s footsteps. Walter, né Charles, was the son of one of Cromwell’s men. The half brothers met, and died in battle, here at Keefer Hall, but they did not kill each other.”

“And the singing nun?” Charity asked. “Papa mentioned the possibility of a connection between the three of them.”

“They were neighbors, all local folks. That is the only connection. He is upstairs with the singing nun now, attempting to discover her tale. It should be amusing to learn what she was doing in a monk’s cell. But enough of that. What have you two been up to?”

“Miss Wainwright thinks Mama murdered Meg,” Lewis said.

“Does she indeed!” Merton replied with an astonished look. “Is there no end to Miss Wainwright’s inventiveness? My being a bastard is not enough for you?” he asked, damping down his anger. “Now you label Mama a murderess!”

“I merely suggested it as one possibility among many,” she explained dismissingly.

“Because of there not being a child in Meg’s grave, you see,” Lewis explained.

“That is news to me!” Merton said. “Surely the gravestone indicates a double burial.”

“Told her it was no such thing,” Lewis said. “About Mama, I mean. As to the grave, she is dead right. Did Muffal never tell you the story, John?” he asked, amazed at such a lack of initiative on his brother’s part.

“I do not number Muffal among my confidants,” Merton said dampingly.

“You ought to. He is a mine of information. I have known forever that Meg was alone in that grave. Old Ned, the hermit, could confirm it if he would, but you know Ned. He will never say a word.”

“Except to quote Shakespeare,” Charity added. “And furthermore I think he drinks more than is good for him. His eyes were as red as radishes.”

“You should not have disturbed Ned, Lewis,” Merton chided. “Our hermit is not a mere ornament to amuse our guests, as some are. He is a genuine holy man.”

Lewis accepted this without arguing. “Did you know Papa gave him the post of hermit when he stole Meg Monteith from him?”

“More of old Muffal’s imaginings?” Merton asked, cocking an eyebrow in derision.

“I had the story from Muffal,” Lewis admitted.

“Muffal is a nasty piece of mischief. I wish you would not speak to him.”

Charity asked, “Why do you allow him to live on the estate if you dislike his character, Merton?”

“Why, he has lived here forever.”

She knew this was always sufficient reason for continuing a pointless or even dangerous tradition in the noble homes of England. At Beaulieu Lord Montagu harbored a known felon, who had a knack for devising superior fish lures.

“Besides,” Merton added, “he does an excellent job of keeping the park free of moles.”

“He is a demmed fine rat catcher as well,” Lewis added. “Cleared out our cellar in one afternoon. I say, John, is the Armaments Room open now? I should like to have a look-in to see how Knagg is behaving.”

“Yes, it is open. I have allowed Mr. Wainwright to put the offending objects away in a chest in a corner of the room. If that does not satisfy Knagg, I may have them removed to another room.”

“Don’t take them to your own bedchamber,” Lewis advised. “I mean to say, the nun would not want them near her. She must have been dead set against Cromwell, eh? Her being a nun and him destroying our chapel.”

He left, and Charity took his seat closer to Merton. He prepared a smile, looking forward to some private conversation of an intimate sort.

She said, “Someone upstairs was watching us from the east wing. Miss Monteith, I daresay.”

“That is possible. I am sorry I missed our ride this morning. I was particularly looking forward to it.”

“Yes,” she said impatiently. “I daresay Miss Monteith is upstairs?”

“I have not seen her down here. I believe, now that I have had my ankle tended to, I may be able to ride tomorrow.”

“No, we will not be riding. I should have listened to Papa. Where is your mama, Merton?”

Merton saw there was to be no romance until he had discussed the apparition at the window. “St. John is with her at the moment, consoling her for last night’s invasion by the pigeon. I mean to move Mama to another room before nightfall. I am convinced Monteith introduced that bird into her chamber. It is enough to put me in charity with St. John. Better he should get Mama’s money than that Monteith should. I have invited him to take lunch with us. I shall sound him out on his plans for the fund. If I approve, I shall not try to dissuade Mama from giving him half her fortune.”

As Merton was alone, Charity thought it polite to spend a little time with him during his convalescence. Glancing about, she noticed the book of poetry on the table and said, “I see you have been indulging your taste for poetry, Merton. That surprises me. I would not have taken you for the poetic sort.”

He studied this for either insult or praise. As he had no use whatever for poetry, and as Charity had claimed a lack of interest equal to his own, he decided it was no insult at least.

“It helps to pass an idle hour on such occasions as this, when I am chairbound.” He proceeded to put the opening to more personal use. “Er, what sort do you take me for, Charity?”

“A very practical, down-to-earth gentleman. Keefer Hall appears so prosperous that you are obviously a good manager.”

This, while hardly romantic, was one sort of praise to please Merton. He was proud of his estate management. Had she been a gentleman, this discussion might have continued into the byways of sheep rearing and crop rotation. As she was an attractive young lady, he said only, “I am considered a fair manager, I believe.”

“It is generally the way with you unimaginative gentlemen,” she said unthinkingly.

Merton’s jaw moved silently. “What is your reading of yourself ? What sort of young lady are you? I would have thought one of your highly imaginative faculties would be a lover of poetry.”

“No, by and large I find it silly. I like flowers, but to turn them into sentient beings goes too far for me. I am really very boring,” she replied blandly. “I am not poetical or artistic or musical. I do not know what I am precisely. Since I began to grow up, I have never been in one place long enough to find out. I cannot even make up my mind as to whether I believe in ghosts. Papa does seem to have some unexplained power.”

“I believe it is the power of hindsight. He can explain matters after the fact. For instance, we Dechastelaines have always been loyalists. My Armaments Room holds mostly artifacts from wars defending the monarchy. That little yellow jerkin and the round helmet are obviously out of place there. Hence your papa has decided they are the cause of the mischief. It is but a short step to claim that a Cromwellian spirit is doing the mischief.”

“Ye-e-e-s-s,” she agreed reluctantly. “But the table was overturned when the room was sealed and locked. Over the years there have been other occurrences in other houses we have visited. I keep an open mind.”

“When I see a real ghost, then I shall open my mind a little. Meanwhile I am a disbeliever. In the interest of making your papa’s visit peaceful, however, I am willing to pretend to suspend my disbelief.”

“A hypocrite, in fact,” she said, when he was only trying to be polite.

Before he could retaliate, Lewis came pelting into the room. His face was paper-white. “I say, John! Did you not tell me you had put the jerkin and the helmet in that little chest?”

“Yes, I put them there myself. Why—”

“Because they are back on the table. And Bagot assures me no one went near the Armaments Room. Mr. Wainwright is upstairs in his chamber, so you cannot say he did it for a trick.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Merton exclaimed, and grabbed his walking stick to hoist himself out of his chair.

Charity cocked her head at him. “Is your mind beginning to open a crack yet, Merton?” She laughed.

They heard a crash from the Armaments Room as they hastened toward it. By the time they reached it, the yellow jerkin and the helmet had been flung to the floor once more.

“I must tell Papa!” Charity exclaimed, and ran off after him.

Merton stared at the offending articles. There was no point blaming Lewis for this. He might have removed the articles from the trunk and put them on the table. He had certainly not knocked them off. He had not been near the room when that happened.

When Lewis went to pick the things up, Merton said, “Leave them there. We shall let Wainwright handle this. I am beginning to think there are more things on earth than are dreamt of in my philosophy.”

“Very likely,” Lewis agreed, “since you never had any philosophy so far as I have seen.”

Chapter Twelve

Mr. Wainwright was chirping merry at lunch, with the exciting goings-on in the Armaments Room.

“Now that I know the relationship between Knagg and Walter, I shall go through the papers in the library in an effort to prove what they told me. Actually it was Knagg who spoke to me. He is the stronger presence. He is three years older than Walter, who is the son by the second marriage, you see. Knagg’s father was a knight attached to Baron Merton—known as Baron Dechastelaine in those days. Walter’s papa was not so highly placed in society. There may be no mention of him in the documents, but with luck perhaps there will be a line somewhere of a knight’s lady remarrying upon the death of her husband. It is surprising the amount of detail that was written down in the old days.”

Lady Merton listened to all this with impatience, then said, “You have not been to my chamber to investigate what happened last night, Mr. Wainwright.”

“I have never heard of a soul returning in the form of a bird,” he said comprehensively. “I can only say that if it is so, then the fact that the bird is white suggests it is a shriven soul, an innocent and not a malign spirit. Would you not agree, St. John?”

The vicar cleared his throat and replied, “Just so, but surely you are forgetting one ghost that comes in the form of a bird, Wainwright. I refer, of course, to the Holy Ghost, the third person of the Trinity who is usually symbolized as a white dove.”

“Are you saying the Holy Ghost entered my room?” Lady Merton exclaimed, turning stark-white herself and trembling in fright.

“My dear lady, nothing of the sort, I assure you,” St. John said. “A glass of wine for her ladyship,” he called to the footman, who hastened forward to fill her glass.

Merton could take no more. “This is demmed nonsense!” he scoffed. “As if ghosts weren’t bad enough, now you are speaking of divine apparitions, the Holy Ghost flying about in the dark. It is a sacrilege.”

St. John clasped his hands, as if about to pray. “That was an unfortunate misunderstanding, milord. I meant nothing of the sort. It was a mere academic discussion. To speak of ordinary ghosts as being a sacrilege, however, is inaccurate. Why, the ghost of Jesus Christ came to Doubting Thomas, if you will recall. To say nothing of Samuel, as I mentioned the other day. I have no doubt her ladyship was visited by a ghost, an innocent, harmless ghost.”